


I’m Not Calling You A Zombie (Just Don’t Eat My Flesh)

by dollsome



Category: Angel: the Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-07
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 08:59:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollsome/pseuds/dollsome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After going to see a zombie movie, Cordelia points out the resemblances between Angel and a certain species of yucky undead flesh eaters. Wesley doesn't really help to dissuade her. Angel is distressed (but has good hair).</p>
            </blockquote>





	I’m Not Calling You A Zombie (Just Don’t Eat My Flesh)

“Ya know,” Cordelia says as they walk out of the movie theatre, in that _I’m having an awesome epiphany_ tone that bodes well for no one, “Angel’s actually kind of like a zombie.”

Angel grimaces at the poster for ZOMBIE RANCH ( _Where the cows eat you, and the cowboys will too!_ ), which they just came out of. Cordelia’s still happily munching away out of the large bucket of popcorn that she insisted beforehand that she and Wesley could finish off in an hour and a half, no problem. At least this way they’ll be fed for the next couple weeks. “Cordelia?” he says. “Can we not?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, ‘Yuck, zombies are gross, I don’t want to be a zombie, would zombies have a coat this nice? Would zombies’ hair be this artfully coiffed?’ (By the way, it’s cute that you try to fool us into thinking it just _looks_ like that, but – and I tell you this as a friend, and one of the only people who ever, you know, hangs out with you – you can cut the charade, buddy. We know you coif.)”

“I do not—”

Wesley gives him a grave, in-the-know nod.

Angel sighs.

“Anyway, the point is. You can just _save it_ , pal. We both know you’re secure enough in your life form to handle a little philosophical discussion about the nature of your existence and its similarity to other existences that just so happen to be, arguably, way nastier. But at least way less with the hair gel.”

“I do _not_ —”

“Technically,” Wesley says, waving a finger in the air for no other reason than to … look smart (Angel guesses), “there are a number of physical differences between zombies and vampires. The most obvious being, I suppose, that they hunger for flesh as opposed to blood—”

“And also that they’re _rotting_ ,” Angel points out indignantly. “Look at this. Nice, non-rotten flesh.” He holds out an arm in example, rolling up his sleeve a few inches just to really drive the point home. “You know why? Because I’m _nothing like a zombie_.” He shoots a pointed look at Cordelia. She rolls her eyes at him.

“Oh my God, chill out, it’s not like I just made you be the Spice Girl who wears track pants all the time.”

Angel stares at her.

“Ugh,” Cordelia says impatiently. “If I had friends who were girls, that remark would have totally resonated, FYI.”

Angel furrows his brow thoughtfully. Maybe he can make this change of subject work for him. It’s not ideal, but. “I think Buffy might have said something once—”

“Blah blah blah Buffy, you love her, she loves you, never the twain shall meet, we _get it_. Ugh. Buffy. Talk about Sporty Spice.”

“Made him _be_ the Spice Girl …?” Wesley muses meanwhile.

“Like, assigning a specific Spice Girl to all your friends. I, for example, was always Posh Spice. Duh.”

Wesley stares blankly at her.

“Oh, you know, it’s a girl thing,” Cordelia says impatiently. “Oh, wait, you don’t, because not only are you not a girl, but I’m pretty sure you’ve never actually had anything to do with one ever.”

“I kissed you,” Wesley points out indignantly. “You were there. I think.”

“I was there,” Cordelia confirms glumly.

“Thank you so much,” Wesley grumbles.

“I think this popcorn is making me evil,” Cordelia reflects, staring down into the bucket.

“Evil popcorn,” Angel says, latching onto the idea. “You mean, like, seriously? Did you have a vision? Because if we have to fight evil popcorn, we should probably formulate a game plan. I mean, we’ve never gone up against anything like that before—”

“What about the possessed goldfish crackers?” Wesley points out. “Last Thursday?”

“Not exactly helping here, Wesley,” Angel growls.

Cordelia, meanwhile, won’t be detained. “Nice try, mister. Wes, please, please take this away from me. Just eat some!”

“Another handful would lead to a round of copious vomiting at this point, I fear,” Wesley answers.

Cordelia wrinkles her nose. “Ugh. Gross. Which – speaking of! You know what else is gross? Zombies. And how much Angel is like them.”

Great.

“She does that very well, doesn’t she?” Wesley reflects, sounding almost impressed.

Apparently male solidarity, not a thing here.

“You,” Cordelia announces way too gleefully, “are pretty much a zombie, my friend. You’re undead. You crave the taste of assorted human parts. You have nests.”

“Hey,” Angel says, “zombies _do not_ have nests.”

“Uh, I know a fine feature film we just saw that would beg to differ.”

“The only reason they were all hanging out in that silo was that that guy got ground up and mixed with the grains, okay?? Nesting requires a higher level of thinking. _Birds_ have nests, and you know where they came from? Dinosaurs.”

“So you’re a dinosaur,” Cordelia says skeptically. She awkwardly maneuvers the turtle-pool-sized bucket of popcorn to one side for the express purpose of putting her other hand on her hip and staring at him with her judgy face.

“Well,” Angel says, a little awkwardly, “yeah. Kind of.”

“Nope,” Cordelia says. “Zombie.”

“Hey! I used to put _thought_ into my murdering and torture! Back when I, you know, did that. I’m not saying it was right. I’m just saying – there’s a certain level of artistry involved when you’re a vampire.”

“Like?”

“Like,” Angel mumbles, “occasionally I’d do some sketching beforehand.”

“Zombie,” Cordelia reiterates.

“Why are we friends again?” Angel wonders.

“Because, Mr. Broodyface,” Cordelia replies, looping her non-popcorn arm through his and giving him a radiant smile, “I’m the only one who sees past the tormented stare and the angst coat and the coiffed ‘do—”

“It is not—”

“It really rather is.” (Wesley.)

“—and isn’t afraid to tell it like it is to you. And you need that.”

And, well, with her smiling all big and gorgeous up at him, it seems like a pretty valid explanation. Damn it.

“Hold this, would you,” she adds, and shoves the bucket of popcorn into his arms.

Angel stares down into its popcorny depths. God, there’s so much. You could feed families. Nations.

“Purely for reasons of scientific curiosity,” Wesley pipes up, “which, ah, Spice Girl would I be?”

“Bill Nye The Science Guy,” Cordelia replies without missing a beat.

Wesley frowns.


End file.
